


It's Not What It Seems In the Land of Dreams

by trickstartmonk



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cute, Gen, M/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 08:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17619065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstartmonk/pseuds/trickstartmonk
Summary: Based on Lullabye by Fall Out Boy





	It's Not What It Seems In the Land of Dreams

Patrick is six years old when he knocks his mother out.

 

And, no, god no, not the way you're thinking. Patrick's not a criminal. Or, not intentionally, at least. But he's dangerous and sometimes it catches up to him.

 

Like when he was six years old, for example.

 

He was playing with four other kids in the complex's playground, throwing dirt and smiles and toys like the rest of them. It was beautiful outside, he remembers that clearly, and he bumped shoulders with one of the other kids. A friend, really, but then it got dark. Of course it got dark, that's what happens, that's how time passes, and everyone knows it flies by when you're having fun, yes, so he had to head back home. Everyone else had actually already done so, because when he stops to think about it, his last friend had left when the first star appeared. By now it was a complete sky. He goes home quick, hates worrying his family, feels embarrassed when he forgets and has to apologize.

 

He does it a lot.

 

When he gets home, the house is frantic. His mother is visibly manic, twirling her hair in her fingers at the counter, pulling strands, tapping her foot. His father isn't there, but he works late so that's normal. His older brother is pacing, oldest sister is cooking what smells like burned rice, and everyone's talking. Loudly, over each other. Worried, interrupting, scared.

 

All of that stops when he shuffles in. One, two, three. Silence. His mom's eyes are red rimmed and bruised underneath from so little sleep and oh so much stress. His siblings look relieved but vaguely annoyed, and everything is still so quiet. Eerie. He knows he caused this, there's an apology on his tongue but he never gets it out. His mother is on her knees in front of him in record time, hugging him tightly, cradling his skull, whispering to him. 'Where were you? So worried. So worried' over and over into his neck. She's shivering. Shaking, actually. When she pulls back to meet his eyes, he realizes she was  _crying_ too, oh god he caused that.

 

He mumbles out an 'I'm so sorry, I went to the park, I forgot, I forgot, I didn't realize how dark it was, I'm so sorry, Mom' but she shakes her head. Angrier. She's digging her nails into his skin now, no longer comforting, now bordering painful, ow. She tells him he never even  _said_ he was going to the park, she didn't know where he was for  _hours_ ,  _anything could've happened, what the fuck, Patrick_?

 

She digs her nails in deeper, she's tired of this shit, you see, and sends his brother and sister to bed. They walk off hurriedly, know what's coming and so does Patrick, but its still a shock when she starts yelling. His sister never turned off the rice, the burner is still going, and he watches it distantly while his mother screams at him. Shakes him occasionally to emphasize her point, accidently scratches him a few times. He's so focused on not moving or disrupting her, not putting any attention on himself, that he doesn't tell her about the burner.

 

He takes the tirade fine, its deserved, he supposes, but when she informs him that his father will come home early to deal with Patrick, he breaks. That's unacceptable, you see, his father is a scary man who works very hard and Patrick doesn't see him often. They live in the same house but don't cross paths often, don't share meals or stories or those famous dad jokes. Patrick doesn't know if his father is a good  _father_ so much as an excellent provider. He kind of scares Patrick, so no. That's not acceptable,  _no._

 

He tells her this, desperately, and her nails dig in deeper. 

 

He yelps, ow, and when he looks down sees the blood. She likes acrylic nails long and pink, but the tips are red on three of each hand where she pressed hardest. He stares, peripherally sees her vision drop too, hears her gasp. He looks up at her. When he sees her shocked and apologetic face stuck on hold, he feels angry. It's blinding white and ringing in his ears when he pushes her away, the sound of his pulse is so loud, and he's so upset and hurt, and mad, he's pissed, he wants to cry and scream and kicks and he just-

 

He just opens his mouth. 

 

This entity, this absolute  _anger_ , shoots from his toes to his belly to his esophagus. Its like throwing up, but your entire  _being_ is your stomach, and it feels natural to let it out. The adrenaline of being upset flows through you, skin tingling and cold but hot to the touch and simultaneously burning- the second his jaw dropped its like he's being ripped apart and on fire. It feels like he's being turned inside out and his eyes are clenched, his lips are chapped and its like he's being drained of something he didn't even know he possessed. His mind reels black.

 

Everything stops.

 

He looks around, and it's silent again, like a moment he created in a snowglobe that sits on a weak shelf and he's the loose screw and the reason why it'll inevitably fall and shatter. He can imagine it spill onto the floor, water and glitter still together but dying in the dry atmosphere. He can imagine the scene inside, now completely broken. All because of him.

 

He blinks. Looks around for real. Hears nothing, and he looks to the ground. A, well. It's. It's like a mist? Fog. It's like fog, and it's black and looks menacing, and it circles his feet, but more importantly, the body on the floor. 

 

He watches his mother, consumed by this, the, uh, the  _fog_ and can't move. Is paralyzed, frozen to the spot. If he listens close enough, he can hear the faint music from his sister's stereo in her room upstairs, loud even now, and that's. Comforting. He's going to be seven this April, and he's got friends to invite. From school. The neighborhood. He wants a chocolate cake with fruit because he loves fruit and all of this seems like a dream because he is six years old and his mother is not moving. 

 

He doesn't know how long he stands there.

 

He's thinking about a game of tag where Patrick was the monster and how fun that was but how it doesn't really hold up when he's ripped from his thoughts. Loud, loud noises pull him from his monologue, and he feels heavy, rough hands or his shoulder. He flinches, horrified, ready for jail or adoption or whatever they do to evil little devil kids who do unbelievable things, and realizes it's his father. His dad's hands slide from his shoulders to his forearms and Patrick whimpers when they run over the angry marks there.

 

That incident feels like years ago, but Patrick realizes it couldn't have been that long. The mist is still there, but has wrapped around only his feet now. Like its alive. Tied to Patrick. His mother still lies on the ground, and his father sees this. His blue eyes widen in fear, awareness, and flit back to Patrick in what looks like recognition. He lifts his hands from Patrick, stands up from where he had been kneeling and walks to his wife.

 

He touches her cheek, and she snuffles.

 

Like she was sleeping. Oh.

 

Both Patrick and his dad let out a big breath. Patrick watches as his father lifts her body and carefully puts her on the couch, and slowly turn back to Patrick. His eyes trail to where Patrick had been bleeding and his eyes are far-away when he stares at the mist. The fog thing, actually just soaks back into his body though his fingertips under the scrutiny. Patrick doesn't focus on it, instead waits for is father's orders. Reaction. Anything.

 

His dad's eyes get bigger but he doesn't flinch. Or cry or scream or yell or call 911 like Patrick wants to. He closes his eyes and nods, looks at his wife, Patrick, and where the mist was. Like he understands the situation.

 

Like he gets it.

 

But he doesn't hug Patrick or smile reassuringly or ask if his other children are okay.

 

He sniffs once, and focuses on the burner still on.

 

Says, "She passed out because. Because, the. Uh. The burner. It's still on. Gas- it. There's gas. She's sensitive about these things, you know. She. The gas. That's all"

 

Patrick opens his mouth to assert that,  _no dad, this was me I'm sorry I didn't mean to I was so scared why aren't you yelling._ But his dad shakes his head stiffly, tells him to go to his room, brush his teeth, wash the cuts on his arm, it'll be okay, Patrick.

 

(He doesn't say the last one but his tone softens and Patrick thinks that's what he means.)

 

Patrick nods and walks past his dad without saying goodnight.

 

He uses mouthwash, and changes into his comfiest pajamas after brushing his teeth. The cuts are clean but sting, feel so sensitive against his sheets.

 

Patrick sleeps that night surprisingly well in a way he hasn't done since he was a baby and would cry so much his parents would pass out from exhaustion. He dreams of red nails and black smoke and scared eyes and power and magic and his friends. He feels like he fits his skin better but tries not to imagine why.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

So, Patrick was six years old when he knocked his mother out, but not in the way you might've expected.

 

Turns out, the power is surprisingly useful. Putting people to restful sleep is sometimes the ideal superpower. 

 

At eleven, he figured out how to control his emotions so something stupid like that never happens again. He figures out that taking ten deep breaths is annoyingly effective at keeping the fog at bay. By conquering it, he stops fearing it. His dad says its a genetic thing, that its random and hops generations, and that they won't send him to any Military-freak-camp where they can poke and prod him for answers. His sister, brother, and mom find out but all agree to keep it under wraps,  _'what a weird freaking secret', 'why does HE get the powers', 'my son is SPECIAL!'_

 

At fifteen, he can summon it when he wants. Not just by opening his mouth, either. Singing! His mom is a stressed out person, so she asks him to help her out on week nights. He'll follow her to her room and sing some Sinatra to her and the mist floats out lightly, so much sweeter than it first did. Less potent too, and more controlled. For her, its a pale lilac she says smells like rainwater. At fifteen he sees his mother rest peacefully for the first time in her life.

 

At seventeen, he deals with an insomniac and a wild band. He leans how to diffuse it into the air when he's humming, watching Pete and Joe settle a bit more and Andy look less frustrated. When Pete spends the night, he's always amazed when he's able to pass out. ' _Dude, its like. Blue in here. Blue? Pat do you see that, wooooah oh wow, goodnig-'_

 

At seventeen and a half, he learns how to will the fog where he wants it to go. Through the vents of the school to his math teacher, to his workaholic dad from the backyard, to Pete across town. He can breathe it down a landline when Pete calls delirious and upset and awakeand  _'Pat, please sing to me, please.'_

 

Sometimes when Pete looks angry on the couch, Patrick will softly hum a violent Metallica song to see him smile then drop his head to Patrick's shoulder as he snores for the first time in days. The room is an innocent pink and smells of roses. It's not romantic, shut up.

 

He learns that by putting people to sleep and excersising his power, he sleeps better too. When he uses it he feels more comfortable, more soft around the edges. Its freeing. 

 

Most importantly though, using his power means Pete's happy too, even if he doesn't exactly know why. (Pete has vivid dreams too, he loves to share them with Patrick at breakfast, chatting away about some weird night-plot of his. Patrick smiles wide when Pete thanks him unknowingly, when he says its his soothing voice that lulls him.)

 

' _Your my lucky charm, Trick!'_

**Author's Note:**

> cutesy shit, i know :)


End file.
